


Beautiful Gravities

by Vagrant_Blvrd



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-14 21:07:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29548374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vagrant_Blvrd/pseuds/Vagrant_Blvrd
Summary: So the thing is, Luke thinks, is that sand is the worst.“Oh, absolutely,” his father agrees, hands folded in the sleeves of his robes as he peers over Luke’s shoulder watching Luke work. “I have strong feelings on the subject.”
Relationships: Din Djarin/Luke Skywalker
Comments: 22
Kudos: 448





	Beautiful Gravities

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt fill for Anon on Tumblr who wanted Din giving Luke a beskar prosthetic. :D?

So the thing is, Luke thinks, is that sand is the worst.

“Oh, absolutely,” his father agrees, hands folded in the sleeves of his robes as he peers over Luke’s shoulder watching Luke work. “I have strong feelings on the subject.”

Luke snorts because he knows. Has heard that particular rant on more than one occasion. 

“I’d noticed,” Luke says, flexing the fingers of his right hand carefully. Feels like there is still sand caught in its inner workings, and he doesn’t have the proper tools with him to do a full breakdown to clean it out. “You might have mentioned it a time or two.”

Or more.

Definitely more.

There’s a laugh from somewhere, familiar, and Luke hides a smile as his father scowls at something Luke can’t see.

Listens to his father grumbling about some people who grew up on Coruscant and don’t have a finer understanding of the sheer aggravation sand can cause.

Luke ignores the bickering – he can only hear his father’s part and while it’s certainly entertaining it loses something without hearing Obi-Wan’s responses.

He takes a page from Han’s book of mechanical repair by hitting his hand on the edge of the low table in front of him, low-tech and yet somehow satisfying. Sand filters through the gaps in the main framework of his hand to the ground below, and is about to say something to his father when Din walks in.

Behind him, Luke’s father makes this little noise in his throat, contemplative. Luke watches as he moves towards Din a few steps, odd expression on his face as he studies Din.

Luke is never sure what his father is thinking in moments like this, the times he chooses to visit Luke while he’s away from the school hunting down Jedi relics or rooting out Imperial remnants. Sometimes on his own, but more often than not Din is with him, or perhaps it’s the other way around, Luke isn’t sure anymore.

“What are you doing?” Din asks.

Luke looks at Din who is looking at Luke with his head cocked, curious, like someone studying native wildlife that’s acting in a manner atypical of its usual behavior.

“My hand,” Luke says, and waves with said hand. And then, because words don’t seem to be his friend at the moment. “Sand.”

Din continues to stare at Luke. 

Luke continues to be an idiot. 

Luke’s father is laughing, which is both hurtful and unhelpful.

“...I see,” Din says in the tone of voice someone uses when they don’t, actually, and are just humoring someone. “One of the locals had information on the base that might be useful.”

Luke listens to the information Din gathered on his scouting mission as he finishes tinkering on his hand and closes up the maintenance panel. He considers the synthetic skin for a moment, and decides it will prove to be more hindrance than help with the shape it’s in at the moment courtesy of the ambush he and Din were caught in when they first arrived. 

He looks up when he realizes Din’s stopped talking, is, in fact, watching Luke silently as he pulls the glove over his hand.

“Din?”

Din lifts his head giving away what he was staring at, and Luke raises an eyebrow at him. Din knows about Luke’s prosthetic, but he supposes this is the first time he’s truly seen it. 

After a moment Din sighs, shoulders dropping. “If you need help repairing it…?” he asks, trailing off as though he’s uncertain of Luke’s reaction to his offer, still awkward after all this time.

“It’s fine, just superficial damage,” Luke says, and wiggles his fingers at Din in demonstration. When Din tilts his head, curious, Luke shrugs. “The synthetic skin got shredded.”

Happens when you block a vibroblade with it, which, in hindsight hadn’t been his best idea.

Din gives Luke a look. “You’re sure?” he asks, long having figured out that Luke isn’t always completely honest about these things, and it worries him.

Luke smiles, sees an echo of it in his father’s face before he fades from view leaving Luke and Din alone.

“I’m sure, but I appreciate the offer.” 

Luke does, actually. 

Probably more than Din realizes. 

After a moment Din nods, and makes his way over to Luke. Sighs as he sits beside him, and it’s natural as anything to lean into him, smile at the quiet huff of amusement as Din puts an arm around him.

Desert worlds like this one get cold at night, and the hut they’ve been given for their stay isn’t in the best shape, wind and cold creeping through cracks.

“The Armorer,” Din says, slow, hesitant, the way he always is when they have this discussion. “She could – “ Din stops, lets out a frustrated sigh. “If you would allow it, she could make you a new hand. Or plate it.”

With beskar, Din means.

It’s tempting, it really is, after Luke’s seen the things Din can shrug off thanks to his own armor, but.

“It belongs to your people,” Luke says, the way he always does.

What they’ve managed to recover is is needed to make armor, weapons for the Mandalorians. To sponsor the foundlings in their care. 

Din breathes out a long, low sigh. “And what do you think you are?” Din asks so very quietly, words hanging between them. 

Immediately, irreverently, all the names and titles and accolades people have seen fit to place on Luke’s shoulders come to mind, ones he never asked for, never wanted, and yet carries all the same.

The quip he wants to make dies in his throat, smothered by the knot of emotion that seems to have taken up residence.

Din takes Luke’s gloved hand in his, and after a look to Luke for permission slips the glove off his hand.

Bare metal gleams under the light. Scratches and scuffs, small dents more evident as Din examines it more closely, turns it this way and that.

He can still feel the sand caught in servos and mechanisms, or maybe it’s his mind playing tricks on him again. Phantom sensations amplified by his brain interpreting sensory data the prosthetic sends it. Mental elements to it science has yet to explain away.

Din makes a noise as he brushes his thumb over an ugly weld on one of the fingers, field patch job thanks to Artoo that Luke keeps meaning to take care of properly but never does. (It’s fine, though, he’s used to it by now and doesn’t cause any harm.)

“Yeah, that,” Luke murmurs, and flexes the finger to show Din that it’s fine, really, still functional and everything. “Happened when those bounty hunters were after me.”

He can feel Din looking at him, asking for clarification because – strangely enough – there have been multiple times bounty hunters have come after Luke hoping to collect on the price on his head. A fair amount of assassins too, come to think of it.

Din says nothing, and yet still manages to say so much with a judgmental _hm_. It’s both exasperating and endearing and something Luke stopped trying to make sense of long ago.

“Beskar,” Din says, “is more durable than that.”

It feels like a lesson, somehow. Deeper meaning to his words in the way he holds Luke’s hand so carefully in his, offers something like that to Luke so freely than Luke can grasp at the moment, but knows he should.

“I’ll think about it,” Luke says, when he can speak again, move past the sharp ache in his throat, faint echo of it in his chest.

Din sighs again, but it’s more amused than anything, because it’s what Luke always tells him. “Do that,” he says, and squeezes his hand before he untangles them and sets about putting something together to eat.

Luke watches him, and imagines he can still feel the warmth, weight of Din’s hand in his long afterwards.


End file.
